


mole problems

by Captain_Loki



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crack, Fingering, Humor, M/M, Oblivious Stiles, POV Derek, Pining, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 05:06:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Loki/pseuds/Captain_Loki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing that Derek Hale hates the most about Stiles Stilinski, other than his penchant for being right and his ability to poke at buttons Derek didn’t even know he had…is the stupid fucking mole just above the crack of his ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mole problems

**Author's Note:**

> cross posted to [tumblr](http://captain-snark.tumblr.com/post/49372753692/mole-problems)
> 
> also, bit inspired by this [tumblr gifset](http://captain-snark.tumblr.com/post/49212408200/x) because all I could see was Stiles dancing

The thing that Derek Hale hates the most about Stiles Stilinski, other than his penchant for being right and his ability to poke at buttons Derek didn’t even know he had…is the stupid fucking mole just above the crack of his ass.

Derek really really hates that mole. He hates that mole more than he hates mall kiosk workers and the lingerie department (which he got lost in once when he was six, where he panicked and shifted, got his claws stuck in a huge, hideous beige monstrosity of a bra and cried until Laura found him).

But what Derek really hates most about the mole is the fact that Derek even knows it exists in the first place. Stiles has this self-deprecating way of talking about himself like he actually legitimately believes he’s the awkward lanky one in an ensemble cast, when mostly he’s fucking…you know…not. He still blushes a furious shade of red all the way up his stupid chest when he has to take his shirt off even as he’s puffing it out like he’s daring someone to make fun of his skinny ass. Which no one does, because they’d have literally no ground to stand on.

And Derek is already kind of obsessed with the moles on his face, and the ones he’s seen spattered across his shoulder and the little group rising out of his happy trail. But when he bends over to tie his shoe one afternoon, shirtless, his plaid shorts just a little too big where they slide down his narrow hips he sees it. There in the dip in his spine, the one singular solitary little fucking freckle nestled between the soft swell that says ‘here be ass cheeks’ but aren’t quite yet.

He makes a noise in his throat kind of like the garbage disposal that one time Stiles shoved an entire chicken carcass down it just to ‘see what would happen’. Stiles straightens his back and stares at him all embarrassed, obviously completely mistaking Derek’s battle not to pop the most inappropriate of boners for one of gross disgust. 

Derek manages to make it through most of the summer without spraining something, mostly it involves picturing Peter in various Victorian style dresses and masturbating with an alarming frequency (these being two very separate means of dealing with the issue). The issue however, namely Stiles Stilinski, doesn’t actually go away.

In fact Stiles Stilinski just seems to spawn new and more interesting problems. Derek thinks his life would be far less complicated if Stiles Stilinski weren’t actually in it. He’s thanking whatever Gods might actually be watching, however, that he is, when one night, towards the end of the summer the whole pack ends up at some huge bonfire which is mostly just one big festival of loud music and drunk teenagers at a lake in the middle of the preserve. It really isn’t Derek’s thing, at all, except for how it is, because Stiles is up on this faux stage thing in a pair of obscenely fitted board shorts and nothing else and he’s sloshed and happy and flushed and dancing.

And it’s not fucking awkward dancing like Derek excels at it, it’s fucking rude is what it is. All slow rolls of his toned abs and gyrating hips and little twists that make his ass sort of wriggle like a cross between soft core porn and a fucking work out video.

And then Derek is looking around at everyone like he can’t quite understand how everyone’s higher brain function is working because he’s having a melt-down on a molecular fucking level because Stiles is turning around and there it is, that goddamn mother fucking mole just taunting him. And Stiles’ is all sweat slicked and he can smell him from here, and there are still traces of lime on his skin from where he was doing body shots earlier (and Derek has words for those people whose tongues were on that, very colorful words, archaic Latin type words of an incendiary nature).

And then Stiles is looking back at the crowd and Erica is catcalling him from somewhere to Derek’s left, and Stiles is laughing, before he curves a finger in the waist of his shorts and slides them down, just slightly over the curve of one ass cheek. And Derek just…moves. He’s not even really aware of the fact that he’s moving until Stiles is like right there and he realizes he’s stepping the foot and a half or so up onto the stage.

“Derek?” He’s aware Stiles turning around then, staring at him with a look of confusion and alarm on his flushed face and Derek just stoops a little without saying anything grips at Stiles’ arm and legs and throws him over his shoulder and Stiles is flailing on top of him, shouting.

“What the fuck, Derek!”

“Shut up,” Derek instructs and he just jumps off the fucking stage and stalks off away from the crowd and the noise and Erica laughing herself into a state of hysterics behind them.

“What the fuck is happening?” Stiles asks and he’s a little sloppy from alcohol but not drunk and Derek just says, “We’re going to have sex.”

“Who’s going to have sex?” Stiles asks, and he goes limp suddenly in Derek’s grip. Derek puts him down when they’re out of view from the rest of the crowd gathered on the beach, the lake hidden from view and the sounds of laughter and music slightly muffled by the trees.

“Do you want to have sex?” Derek asks, shifting a little awkwardly now that it’s just he and Stiles and he can’t see his stupid teasing mole. He thinks that mole has mind control powers because he’s suddenly realizing he just carried Stiles off to have his way with him like the villain in a terrible harlequin romance novel.

“With you?” Stiles asks.

“Oh fuck, this was a terrible idea,” Derek says, deflating, and he thinks about fleeing, the woods, the state, the universe if he can swing it.

“Whoa wait,” Stiles laughs, and he clutches at Derek’s wrist and forearm. “What’d you have in mind?” Stiles asks then, and Derek can smell the spike of arousal, can hear the way his heart speeds up, can hear the tiny beat of it lower, Stiles’ cock tenting his stupidly tight shorts.

Derek grips at Stiles’ waist and turns him around, and Stiles lets him, makes a happy surprised noise in his throat. Derek tugs at the draw string on Stiles’ shorts and he wriggles his hips a little when Derek pauses to give him time to protest. When he thrusts back into Derek’s cock, hard and needy in his own shorts Derek drops to his knees.

“Oh balls what?” Stiles says, surprised and Derek yanks Stiles shorts down over his ass and then he’s licking at his stupid fucking mole. “Whoa, whatcha doin?” Stiles asks, all mock casual with it like it’s not totally normal to tongue fuck someone’s spine while grumbling angrily about sentient psychokinetic birth marks; which is the only explanation for Derek Hale’s sudden unyielding obsession.

Then Stiles kind of shuts up after that because Derek is grabbing two handfuls of his spectacular ass and spreading him, diving in, licking at his hole like he’s trying to get to a bubble gum fucking center. Stiles’ hips thrust back in open invitation, and he’s probably getting some serious bark burn from where he’s clutching desperately at the tree in front of him.

When Derek tilts his head enough to scrape his facial hair across Stiles’ spread cheeks Stiles keens and snatches at Derek’s hair and shoves his ass back, they practically topple over, Stiles seemingly hell bent on sitting on Derek’s face. Derek grasps at his hips and lifts him off, “Jesus Christ Stiles, you’re going to break my nose.”

“It’ll heal,” Stiles gasps, “just keep fucking doing what you’re doing,” he pleads. Which Derek does, and then some, because then he’s pushing two spit-slicked fingers into Stiles and fucking him open on them. He stands, grasps at Stiles’ hands and pins them against the tree above them.

“Oh my fucking God, Stiles,” Derek moans, because he’s practically naked, all stretched taught with his arms above his head, and his hips thrust out, ass seeking out Derek’s insistent fingers.

“Hngh,” is what Stiles manages to articulate before he’s coming messily against the tree and himself, asshole clenching down around Derek’s fingers as he pulls them free. Stiles is still practically panting as Derek tugs his shorts up, righting them, and then he’s slinging a sated Stiles over his shoulder once more.

“Now where are we going?” Stiles asks.

“To find lube.”

“Hngh.”


End file.
